Mythos & Marginalia

life notes; flaws and all

j.g. lewis

original content and images ©j.g. lewis

a daily breath...

A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .



You wander.
We all do.

Uncertainty can often
blur your surroundings.


The map is always there,
the lines signify the path
you need to follow.

You simply have to find
the direction.

It is all in your hands.

© 2017 j.g. lewis



               Anguish or confusion, 
        sometimes it is the way. 
      Anxiety takes over. 
        What else can you say  
     as you try to put aside all 
     the feelings that dog you 
   anyway.    No pain today.  
           Try as you might to
    see your way through. 
       No pain.    Not today. 

09/14/2023                                                               j.g.l.

Mondays are just young Fridays

There is very little that can be said about Eric Clapton that hasn’t already been said; except I saw him last night. 
    I’ve been listening to the musician, in all stages of his career, over the past five decades and he has been around even longer than that. 
    Through the years I’ve grown to appreciate Clapton more as a performer, recording artist, and as one of the greatest guitarists of all time, but I’ve never seen him live;  until last night. 
    He was everything (and more) that I expected, playing selections from his lengthy career, and paying homage not only the blues artists who have influenced him but also to friends no longer with us. 
    Clapton and his band kicked of the Toronto concert with a cover of The Band’s The Shape I’m in, a fitting tribute to his longtime Canadian friend Robbie Robertson. Then, later, a tune he once recorded with Tina Turner: Tearing Us Apart
    The show was filled with both popular hits and selections you could tell he felt like playing. With a catalogue like Clapton’s there could have been even more hits, but he did what he had to do.
    At age 79, Clapton’s seemingly effortless prowess on electric and acoustic guitar was both mature and effective. There were a lot of “wow” moments.
    It was quite an evening. 
    What else can I say? 

09/11/2023                                                                                   j.g.l.

I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
other times
dull or
Still I write.

j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.

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Is It Ever As It Seems

Posted on December 17, 2022 by j.g.lewis Leave a comment


December rain sneaks into a sleep that may

or might not have been. Gentle, with enough of a breath

to be noticed, yet crafty enough to remain unknown.

Window open slightly, the world from

the other side of the curtains

seeps into your space. If sleep is sleep, or has it been?

Wide-eyed now, hands reaching upwards, grasping at clouds

and the residue that comes with the season. Emotions,

struggling with premonitions of silence, you attempt

to fashion thoughts into dreams

of what you want or where you’ve seen

or what you wish, or what might have been.

It’s not bright, not this time of day. There can’t be a moon,

not one you can see anyway.

Clouds and thoughts, and your restless ways

fighting the fever for hours and for days.

You might seem so strong and still, right now, who can say.

Lucent thought, lenient waves, comfort you enough to stay

tangled in the life you knew

in this sleep, just not all the way through.

Who you are, or what you want

the raindrops fall, the memories taunt.


Night is only a time for precious remembrances. No one can hear

what you think, perhaps no one can know. Not even you.

A life imagined. You can’t turn it off, or

turn it down, or see your way to shut out the view.

The only one is you. Trying to speak the words

you need to feel, you come up silent against

the rain’s steady peel. It’s takes over, it always does.

December rain. It’s not the same. The chill

cannot be the temperature, you are wrapped in the blankets,

pillows pushed aside in a heap, as they are when you sleep.

A rest that is not now, for if it were 

would you hear your heartbeat, or remember

all that you dream? Or is it ever as it seems.

The steady rhythm never forgets, patterns of the past

come back slowly. It’s wet, its cold, the memory is old

but it is right there. Remember.

Of course you do, of course you have,

you cannot spend all those waking hours in

wonder, and not have it come rushing back.

When you’re ready for mercy,

December rain seems to know.

It crashes against the silence and the mystery it holds.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

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